"I have a small seafood business in Chile," Pevsner said.
That triggered a tidal wave of doubt and concern in Castillo, surprising him both by its intensity and the speed with which it hit him and then grew.
It started with his reaction to Pevsner's saying he had a "small seafood business in Chile."
A small seafood business, my ass, Castillo had thought sarcastically. It's called Cancun Provisions, Limited, and it flies a Boeing 777-200LR full of seafood to Cancun every other day. The 777 is owned by Peruaire. And you own that, too.
Was that natural modesty, Alek, or was the modesty a Pavlovian reflex of a former KGB colonel?
"Say as little as possible; deflect attention."
How much can I really trust Comrade Polkovnik Pevsner?
Right now he tells me I'm family. In love-intending to marry-his cousin Susan, formerly Podpolkovnik Svetlana Alekseeva of the SVR.
But how long will that last if whatever the hell is going on here threatens his wife and children or his way of life?
Most of the charges laid against him are bullshit.
But, on the other hand, I know he supervised the beating to death with an angle iron a man who betrayed him. Or used the angle iron himself. Probably the latter.
My friend Alek is not a nice man.
Edgar Delchamps neither likes nor trusts Alek, and has told me so bluntly. And I know I can trust Delchamps. He's been dealing with Russian spooks-successfully dealing with them-for nearly as long as I am old.
Castillo was as suddenly brought out of his unpleasant reverie as quickly as he had entered it.
There were soft fingers on his cheeks, the scent of perfume in his nostrils, and light blue eyes intently searching his.
"My darling," Sweaty asked. "What's the matter?"
"Nothing."
"You look like you'd seen a ghost!"
He shook his head, said, "I'm fine, baby." He put his hand on her back and felt her warmth though the linen shirt.
Sweaty rose on her toes and kissed him on the lips with great tenderness.
Edgar Delchamps's face showed signs of amused scorn.
Castillo gave him the finger with the hand that had been against Sweaty's back, and announced, "I need a drink."
He mimed to the bartender what he wanted. The bartender, a shaven-headed, barrel-chested man in his thirties, nodded and reached for a bottle of Wild Turkey bourbon. Castillo knew that the crisp white bartender's jacket concealed a Micro Uzi submachine gun.
The bartender was one of the nearly one hundred ex-members of the KGB or the SVR whom Pevsner had brought out of Russia to work for him. And from the looks of him, the bartender was probably ex-Spetsnaz.
There was the snap of fingers.
The bartender looked at Pevsner, who held up two fingers, and then pointed to two armchairs by the coffee table. The bartender nodded.
Pevsner waved Castillo toward the armchairs. Sweaty steered Castillo away from the armchair and to the couch and then sat beside him. Pevsner's face showed much the same amused scorn as Delchamps's face had. Castillo reacted by leaning over to Sweaty and kissing her.
Max walked to the coffee table, sniffed, decided he would pass on the seafood, and went and lay at Castillo's feet.
The bartender served the bourbon to Pevsner and Castillo, then looked to the others for orders. Sweaty shook her head. Delchamps ordered, in Russian, Scotch whisky on the rocks, two chunks only, and a glass of water on the side.
How did he know he's Russian?
Was that a way to find out?
The bartender looked at Darby and Duffy, and in English said, "What may I get for you, gentlemen?"
Pevsner looked genuinely amused, and he even made a little joke when everyone had their drinks and had taken seats around the plates of cold lobster chunks and oysters laid out on the coffee table.
"Well," Pevsner said. "Now that we're all here, whatever shall we chat about?"
Tom Barlow took the chair Pevsner had wanted Castillo to sit in, bringing with him an ice-covered bottle of vodka and a frozen glass.
"My call?" Delchamps asked.
Pevsner gestured for him to go on.
"Is that letter genuine?" Delchamps asked. "Is it really from Cousin Vladlen, or did Solomatin just sign what somebody put in front of him?"
"That's two questions, Edgar," Tom Barlow said. "Yes, I think the letter is genuine. And I think Cousin Vladlen wrote it. But he would have signed anything put in front of him by General Sirinov. Cousin Vladlen has built his career by doing whatever he is told to do."
"I know people like that in the agency," Delchamps said, smiling. "Is he really your cousin?"
"His father is our mother's brother," Barlow said, pointing at Sweaty.
"How come Cousin Vladlen didn't get burned when you and Sweaty took off?"
"General Sirinov may have believed him when he said he had no hint what Svetlana and I were planning. Vladlen's a respected oprichnik."
"A what?" Darby asked.
"That's right," Castillo said. "You weren't here for this history lesson, were you?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," Darby said.
"An 'oprichnik' is a member of the Oprichnina, the secret police state-within-the-state that goes back to Ivan the Terrible," Castillo said, and looked at Sweaty. "Did I get that right, sweetheart? Do I get a gold star to take home to Mommy?"
She smiled and shook her head resignedly.
"I'll explain it to you later, Alex," Castillo said.
"Tell me about General Sirinov," Delchamps said.
"General Yakov Sirinov runs the FSB and the SVR for Putin," Pevsner said.
"Putin as in Prime Minister Putin?"
"As in Prime Minister Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin, formerly president of the Russian Federation, and before that, polkovnik of the KGB, and before that…"
"Oh, that Putin," Delchamps said.
Castillo and Barlow chuckled.
"You think Putin's personally involved in this?" Castillo asked.
"Up to the nipples of his underdeveloped chest," Pevsner said.
"I'm getting the feeling you don't like him much," Delchamps said.
Pevsner chuckled.
"Is anyone interested in the possible scenario I've come up with?" Pevsner then said.
"Does a bear shit in the forest?" Delchamps asked in Russian.
"There's a lady present, Edgar," Castillo said.
"She's not a lady, she's an SVR podpolkovnik," Delchamps said.
Sweaty gave him the finger.
"A former lieutenant colonel of the Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki," she corrected him. "Which has nothing to do with whether or not I'm a lady."
"I hate to tell you this, Sweaty, but it's a stretch to think of anyone-how do I put this delicately?-consorting with Ace here as being a lady."
Sweaty and Castillo both gave him the finger.
"Anyway," Delchamps said, "according to that letter, 'all is forgiven, come home.' That sounds as if someone still thinks of you as an SVR podpolkovnik in good standing."
"Alek, do they really think anyone is going to believe that letter?" Castillo asked. "That Tom and Sweaty are going to be 'welcomed home as loyal Russians'?"
"I am a loyal Russian," Svetlana said. "But loyal to Russia, not to Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin."
"That-loyalty, loyalty to Russia, or even loyalty to Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin personally-may be at the bottom of this," Pevsner said.
"What do you mean?"
"Putin wants Dmitri and Svetlana to come home."
"Is he stupid enough to think they'd be stupid enough to go back?" Castillo asked.
"No one who knows him-and I know Vladimir Vladimirovich very well-has ever suggested he's stupid," Pevsner replied. "And Dmitri… Tom… knows him even better than I do."
"I hate to use the word 'genius,'" Tom Barlow said, "but…"
"How about 'evil genius'?" Svetlana suggested.
"Why not?" Barlow said chuckling.
"So what is the evil genius up to?" Castillo asked.
"I wonder if you understand, Charley-at least as well as Edgar and Alek do-how important it is for the FSB and the SVR to appear both to the people and, more important, to its own members as all-powerful and without fault."